The Demon Lord's Trap
by Dark Lord Ganondorf
Summary: "He's got her now. Now, she's his, and there's no one to stop him." Ghirahim finally gets his wish...
1. Chapter 1

He's got her now. Now, she's his, and there's no one to stop him. They're alone, in his castle of brilliant marble, the stone crawling with veins of onyx, like a complex spider's web, one from which there's no escape.

The bed upon which he has her pinned is sheeted with deep red satin, and he thinks this was a brilliant idea on his part. This way, no one —not that anyone ever came to visit anyway—would see the dark spots of blood she'll bleed when he takes her.

He smiles a little to himself, flicking his silver bangs from his face, just so he can get a better view of her luscious, perfect body, befitting of a goddess, he thinks. His piercing violet eyes rake hungrily over her form, drinking in her perfect features, savoring the delicious scent of her sweaty flesh.

She shrinks away from him, afraid, and he grins menacingly, showing pointed teeth, like shards of moonlight in his black, void-like maw. "Come now, sweet Goddess," he croons. "There's no need to be afraid."

But there is, and she knows it.

He licks the side of her face, his long, snake-like tongue white hot against her skin, and she trembles beneath him, becoming more afraid the closer he gets to her. His breath is like fire upon her flesh, and that alone is enough to make her want to scream. But she can't, because she's too afraid to do even that in his presence.

You didn't scream in his dominion, not unless you wanted pain beyond anything imaginable. He was perfectly capable of such a feat, and she knew it.

His hands, ebony spiders, crawl stealthily up her legs, gliding beneath her dress, slithering between her thighs, making her flinch away as if she's been electrocuted.

He chuckles, a harsh, throaty sound, like the dry rattle of a snake's tongue, slipping over pointed fangs. "Dear Zelda," he scolds. "You needn't be afraid. Nothing will hurt you here."

 _Except maybe me_ , he adds silently.

The look on her face says she clearly thinks his words are meaningless.

His ice-cold fingers scrape down her cheek, and she resists the urge to snap her head forwards and maybe take off a few of his fingers. That would wipe the smirk off his face.

She can't help but elicit even a small moan as he traces his hand down her neck, nipping with his sharp teeth at her collarbone, leaving small, bloody teeth-marks in the perfect, flawless skin. She shouldn't be enjoying this; she should be trying to push him away, to be so bold as to even strike him, to put him in his place. But she doesn't.

"You're a slut," he growls, his tone low and animalistic; his voice is almost a snarl as he speaks.

"How dare you," she hisses, and crawls further up the bed, out of reach where his vile hands cannot get her.

"You can't escape you know," he murmurs. "Sooner or later, I will find you. And when I do…" His lips twist into a cruel sneer, making his face with the black scar splitting his face like the mouth of a great chasm, appear almost monstrous in the fading light from the dripping tallow candles that resided on the vanity table in the corner of the room.

Shadows are thrown carelessly onto the walls by the wandering candle flames, projecting images of that of a loving embrace between a couple. How painstakingly wrong that is. If only it could outline the true form of events taking place.

Of how he is on top of her, nipping harshly at her neck and collarbone and running his hand down the full length of her slender body. The shadows say otherwise. Of how he is leering above her, the clean white dress she once wore now torn open and stained with blood. Of how he is groping viciously at her exposed breasts, his long, pale fingernails leaving deep red scratches on the flawless skin.

It frightens her, how the shadows seem to portray the exact opposite of the true events that are transpiring, how each one seems to have a mind of its own; they're dancing and leaping like puppets with their strings cut, they even seem to be mocking her that they are free, and she, a prisoner of the Demon Lord who has her pinned beneath him.

"Enough foolishness," he growls, and presses her deeper into the bed, which has now become like rock beneath her, hard and brittle against the nape of her neck as her arms and her legs slowly being pried apart by his iron grip.

"Stop," she whispers, her voice almost trembling as she stares, horrified at the psychotic monster that seems intent on ravishing her until she is begging for mercy. And judging by the frightened look upon her face, it wouldn't be too long before he got his wish.

Fear shows clearly in her sky blue eyes, her blonde locks tangled between his fingers, white piano keys splintered with black-lightning bolts in a crystal sky. She tries to move away from his leering face, but his arm shoots out and seizes her wrist, trapping her, preventing her escape.

"What did I tell you, _Zellie_?" he snarls. "There's no way out."

"Don't call me that," she whispers, disgusted at the way her thinks he can just throw names around like they mean nothing to him.

But of course, he's only ever known one thing: fear. Fear that others feel for him, fear on rare occasions, fear he has felt himself. He's nothing more than an echo-a creature whose soul is a whirling rage of gold and shadows, cloaked in a haze of fire and smoke, and whose heart belongs purely to darkness.

"And why not?" he growls. "What are you going to do, Your Grace?"

She can't think of an answer, and lowers her head in defeat.

That maniacal, machine-gun laugh explodes from his throat once again, and he lowers his face so that it hovers directly above her own, leering down at her like the face of some ghastly demon. "Scared?" he asks.

All she can do is nod and ask, "Why won't you let me go?"

He grips her face tightly in those claw-like fingers of his, the black nails digging into her flesh, drawing blood and sending pain shooting through her like a raging storm of agony and suffering. His voice emerges in a faint hiss as he talks. "Because that would be no fun."

He leans closer to her, his breath white hot silver on the nape of her neck, whispering, crooning vile and despicable words into the ear of the goddess.

"Come on babe," he whispers. "Let's get it on. What do you say?"

A shiver runs down her spine as she listens to his words, cruel and disgusting in her ears.

 _Shut up_ , she wants to say, _just shut up_. But she knows that if she even so much as mutters a word against him, he'll strike her and he'll strike her good.

His fingers close, like a vice, around her wrist, the ebony nails opening deep red scratches in her pale flesh. Pain shoots through her arm, and tears, salty and hot, spring to her eyes. Her face twists in agony as his nails sink deeper into her flesh.

Blood, black in the pale light, bubbles up from the fissures in her skin and runs down her arm in streams of crimson. The red sheets are now stained with droplets of deep maroon and her hair, the color of sunlight, is now streaked with rose madder, the color of her hair having lightened the tone of the blood that runs through it.

Ghirahim trails his hand through the sunlight waterfall that cascades down her back and over her shoulders. "Beautiful," he murmurs.

She flicks her head to the side, attempting to free her hair from his death-like grasp. Quick as lightning, his fingers snap shut, trapping the remains of what he still held, and making her cry out; it feels as if her hair is being uprooted at the core, torn out at the roots like a dead plant from the soil in which it once grew. And it is agony.

A strangled cry escapes her throat, and he takes this opportunity to kiss her, not softly, but fiercely, nothing like the kisses Link would often give her. His kisses were soft and sensuous, while the lips of the Demon Lord were cold and clammy, as if they were sucking the life from her with every passing second, kisses of fire upon her freezing skin.

Trapped in his deathly embrace, it is all she can do to push him away, separating his lips from her own, and gaze hatefully up into his burning violet orbs. A crazed grin forms on his lips, and he looks at her, gazing into her azure pupils with a lust that could only be described as, when coming from him, perverted.

Shivering in disgust, she tries to wriggle out of his iron grip, but her attempts serve only to enrage him further, and he tightens his grip around her waist, his free hand coming up to cup her breast, his thumb trailing lazily down her cleavage.

Slipping his hand stealthily under the hem of her dress, he runs his fingers, like icicles, up her legs, keeping her frozen in place. She knows if she moves even one bit, he'll break through her maidenhead like paper. He doesn't care about her honour, her only purpose is for her to be his prisoner, his captive. And the captive's captor doesn't follow the rules.

His iron grip turns to steel around her wrist, and blood, flashing red in the pale light of the ever-melting candles that still burn upon the vanity, drips onto the sheets, running down the pale skin of her wrist and staining the Demon Lord's ebony fingers a deep red, barely visible in the dim light.

The shadows that once danced merrily, insanely, on the walls are waning, becoming smaller in size as the candles burn themselves down to mere stumps of melted tallow on the dresser. Yet the images they portray still remain, like silhouettes of ash upon the wall's pale surface.

She glances fearfully over to the mirror, where ribbons of light dance and twirl in the glass, reflected from the dying flames. The Zelda she sees in the mirror is far different from the Zelda she knows she should be.

In the mirror, her reflection wears a mask of fear and agony, but inside, she knows she should not be like that. She's a goddess. She should be facing him, defiance in her eyes, and courage in her heart. But she does not. She cowers from him, afraid, and this simple action brings a victorious smirk to his lips, twisted and warped.

"Get away from me," she moans, wishing Link would come soon, though she knows he never will. She knows he would try; he would try if it killed him, but his efforts would all be in vain. She could see him now, delving into the hearts of the most dangerous places on the surface world, his blade flashing as it cut through monsters as if they were made of paper, a determined smile upon his lips, all to reach her, to reach the place where she was held captive.

Impa, her Sheikah guardian, had been killed by Ghirahim and his minions long before she arrived in this hellhole he called his home, and now, the hero was her only chance of making it out alive. But even as she thought of him, of how he would come to save her, the thought seemed more insane and impossible, and she began to think he would not come at all.

But instead of backing away, he slides his icy fingers further up the inside of her thighs and in one quick motion, thrusts them inside of her, making her cry out in pain as her hymen breaks beneath the pressure he is putting on it. Tears spring to her eyes and his fingers become streaked with blood. Her blood.

Angry now, she shoves him away from her, a look of hatred and venom upon her face that surprises him. He's never seen her like this before.

"I used to think I hated you," she whispers venomously, "but now, I'm certain. I hate you more than ever."

And he just laughs. His ebony hand comes whistling through the air and strikes the side of her face, sending her reeling with a cry of pain.

"Are you defying me?" he hisses.

A smirk appears on her bloodied lips, split open by his razor-sharp nails. "Yes. Yes I am."

He raises his hand to strike her again, to end her life where she sits, sprawled on the scarlet bed sheets, pain etched across her face, and as he does, she sinks her teeth into his hand. A cruel smile plays across his lips, and he tears his arm free of her mouth, uprooting a few of her teeth in the process.

Spitting blood, the goddess howls in pain and strikes out at him with her foot, catching him in the stomach and enraging him even more.

"You," he growls, "just made a fatal mistake."

His iron hands close around her throat, locking onto her windpipe and cutting off her breathing, choking her.

As he chokes the life out of her, a thought runs through his head. _If I kill her_ , he thinks, _I'll have nothing to play with. Then I'll be bored. I'll have broken my favorite toy_.

Releasing his grip on her throat, he kicks her backwards across the room, and her head slams into the wall, resulting in a crack that splinters the wood it is made of, putting an enormous dent in the crown of her head. Blood mats thickly into her hair as the dent becomes a fissure, and it begins to bleed heavily.

She can taste the metallic tang of her own blood on her lips, and see the ominous shadow of his slender form looming over her. Frightened, she shrinks away, her cerulean eyes shining with a mixture of anger and fear.

As he advances upon her, she tries to hit him, but he grabs her arm and twists it harshly, snapping the bones within as easily as one might tear a sheet of paper in two.

This time, she cannot hold in her pain, and a shriek of pent up agony erupts like a long-dormant volcano from her bloodied lips. Hatred and fear and agony pool deep within her eyes in the gaze she directs at him, a gaze of all the things she wishes upon him. Hatred. Fear. Agony. Death.

Slipping his arm, a bone white grass snake, around her waist, he pulls her to him, his long, snake like tongue slicking up the side of her face, leaving a trail of saliva in its wake.

She tries her best to suppress a shudder, but despite her best efforts, she cannot, and it courses through her body like an earthquake, sending her entire body into a series of violent tremors.

He laughs in amusement. "Does my behaviour repulse you, my Goddess?"

"Stop addressing me as if I am your puppet. I do not belong to you."

Having been his prisoner for so long, she decides she can drop the façade of being Zelda and wishes she could put him in his place once and for all.

But Link is still her Hero, her Link. Simply because she has changed her identity, does not mean her affections for the hero have also been altered.

"And what are you going to do about it, Hylia?" he sneers.

"I swear, when I get out of here, you're going to pay," she hisses angrily.

He steps back, arms outstretched, and laughs. "Come on then. Come and get me. I've already taken what you can never earn back; what have you to take from me?"

She has no reply for that. The reminder that he was the one to take her virginity strikes her like a ton of bricks, harder than he has ever hit her before.

Another machine-gun laugh erupts, like a volcano spewing hot lava, from his maw. "I thought so. The mighty Goddess has been reduced to nothing in a matter of days."

"What manner of monster are you?" she asks, bewildered at how easily he has subdued her, when she was the one who sealed his master, a being far more powerful than himself, beneath the surface of the world below.

"What I am matters not. In my dominion, I can be anything I want to be."

Her stomach rumbles loudly, and despite the hate she feels for him, she glances up at him expectantly.

"Hungry?" he asks.

She nods.

"Well, I can't beat you within an inch of your life on an empty stomach now, can I? And I doubt you'll last much longer yourself if you don't eat either."

Reaching out, he jerks her to her feet, and drags her roughly out of the bedroom and into the hallway…


	2. Chapter 2

As he drags her round the corner, she looks upon the cavernous dining room, its walls constructed from the same ivory stone as the rest of the castle in which he resides. On the table, which stretches the entire length of the room, is laid a banquet of different foods and drinks, some of which she has never seen before, others of which she thought she would never taste again.

Seating herself in one of the high backed chairs that are placed around the table, she reaches for a bunch of tantalizing red grapes which sit on the table, almost begging her to take them, like Persephone in the garden of Hades, where the slightest taste of anything she touches would trap her in the Underworld forever.

Her fingers stop inches from the delicious looking fruit, and she glances up at him, to see if he says anything that would reveal this as a ruse, a trick to keep her imprisoned.

"What? Did you think this was a trick? As I said before, I can't beat you within an inch of your life on an empty stomach."

Cautiously, she reaches for a grape and plucks it from the vine, slipping it between her teeth and crunching down on it. Flavour explodes on her tongue, and as she swallows the remains of the fruit, she realizes, it wasn't poisoned.

Grinning greedily, she begins to fill her plate, with treats of every shape and size, every flavour and taste. Reaching for a fried Cuckoo that takes pride of place in the centre of the table, she tears off a leg and sinks her teeth into it, relishing the explosion of flavours in her mouth. It's like nothing she's ever tasted before.

Soon enough her plate is empty, and she's back for more, having been deprived of both food and water for the entire duration of her stay up until this point.

This time, her plate is filled with sweets and desserts, things that she wouldn't have even dreamed existed up until now. Her gilded golden goblet is filled to the brim with a liquid that resembles honey, tastes like honey, but she knows it's not honey. It's sweet and thick, like nectar, but at the same time, sour and strong, like wine. She doesn't know what it is, but she doesn't care.

The goblet rings as it strikes the table, and as it does, it is filled to the brim once more with the same heavenly elixir. Biting into a pastry that oozes a thick juice that tastes like berries and sugar, she gasps as it drips onto her crisp white dress and down the front between her breasts.

The Demon Lord's slender ebony fingers brush the stain from the front of her dress, and a snap of his fingers fills her plate with food once more. Still hungry, she seizes the nearest thing to her-a large slice of pumpkin pie- and bites into it ravenously. The flavour surprises her- it's like something sweet and something sour all rolled into one. She's never tasted anything like that before.

Eventually, she puts down her knife and fork and sits back in her chair with a satisfied groan- she can eat no more.

"Not hungry anymore?" inquires the Demon Lord.

"It was nice, but I couldn't possibly eat another mouthful."

She's not sure why or how he has changed so fast, but she's certain there's a catch. And she's not wrong.

He advances on her slowly, a demonic sneer upon his ivory lips, ebony fingers twitching like agitated spiders, as if he cannot wait to get his hands on her. Nervous, she backs away, then realizes he's got her back to the wall. She's trapped.

His tongue flickers briefly across his lower lip and she feels a drop of blood stray from the tip and land on her cheek, where it blossoms like a rose in summer.

A disgusted look crosses her face, and she tries to back away further, but her heart drops into her stomach when her shoulder blades strike the wall, its marble surface cold against her skin.

As she stares at him, terrified of his true objective, though she has a pretty good idea what he wants from her, she realizes the catch in his sudden gesture of unusual kindness. He was fattening her up, making her slower, trying to get her to lower her guard, preparing her like a pig for slaughter.

It's like he can read her thoughts, for as she thinks this, he replies, "Well done, my Goddess. I didn't think you would figure it out so fast."

"You make me sick," she growls angrily.

He rakes his violet gaze up and down her petite form, making her feel very self-conscious about her revealing dress, split at the neck and down the sides, showing more of her legs and breasts than she wanted people to see. Not that there was anyone but him to see it anyway.

She sees the mischievous glint in his eyes, and she knows he's not playing. She can only imagine the thoughts running through his sick, twisted head. A shiver, like cold water being trickled directly down her spine, runs through her, and her face twists into a grimace of disgust.

"Come now," he croons softly- it only makes her hate him more, the way he speaks to her, like he owns her- "Sweet Zelda. Why do you hate me so?"

She can't help herself. An involuntary laugh of derision bursts from her lips, like the piercing call of a raven, and she turns to him, astonishment written across her face like the words in a book, printed and absolute.

She resists the urge to hit him, she knows it'll only get her into more trouble, and instead asks, "What did you say?"

"I said," he growls, and jerks her chin up with his hand, his ebony fingers digging into the pallid skin of her face, "why do you hate me?"

"Why do you think?" she snarls viciously. "You kidnapped me, brought me here, and raped me. Do you have any idea how that feels? Do you? Of course you don't!"

"And what would rather I did? Left you in the desert to die?"

She doesn't have an answer to that. At least here she had food, shelter and water. But she had lost her innocence, and was unable to escape. Trapped in his castle with him.

The goddess turns away from him, refusing to look at his sneering, jubilant face. His smile unnerves her; she's actually scared of him. Not that she wouldn't be after he… she doesn't want to think about it.

The feeling of his ice-cold fingers creeping up her legs, between her thighs, pausing to dip ever so slightly into the burning spot between them, eliciting quiet, involuntary moans from the goddess, and a smile from the lips of the demon lord.

"You like that?" she can remember him whispering, ever so softly, but just loud enough for her to hear. "You want more, don't you?"

She can remember trembling violently in his grip, shaking as he holds her, fingers vice-like around her body, nothing like Link would do, if he were here. He was much gentler to her; his fingers would be like the wind, barely noticeable, but always there, a soft caress upon her skin.

But his fingers were like thorns, sharp and painful, his nails drawing blood as they scraped along her arms, her legs, her belly. And down there.

She would welcome the bleeding by his hand, but if he were the one to take her- it would be unbearable. The burning would be soothed by his hand, but his hand would only intensify the insatiable heat.

Her golden triangle of hair would remain clean should he take her, but at his hand, it would become stained with her blood, rose madder streaks twisting through the golden curls.

Shaking herself from her daze, she faces him, and an amused smile flashes across his lips; when he smiles, she becomes scared. When he smiles, she feels Death's gaze upon the back of her neck. And so she returns with a smile of her own, a smile laced with venom and hatred, hatred for him, and for the things he has done to her.

The Demon Lord recoils in what seems like fright to her. But that couldn't be true, could it? She advances on him, the smile now changed to one of victory. The tables have turned, she commands him now.

But just as soon as she thinks she has won, he is back, the frightful look vanished off his face and replaced by venom and anger. His hands tighten once more around her neck. He doesn't care anymore; she's nothing to him now.

Her eyes flash a deep maroon with fear, tears form in their ocean blue depths, like pools of water in which the moonlight of a midnight sky reflects. Her arms flap weakly at her sides, but she knows it's no use; he let her go once, he wasn't going to do it again. Not voluntarily anyway.

Her boot strikes his solar plexus, and he grunts in pain, releasing her purely out of shock that she had the courage to strike him, after all this time. Anger crosses his face, his form shimmering momentarily, changing into that of a sword resembling the Master Sword, with a jagged blade and a wider cross guard. Its surface was a deep ash grey, with swirls of black hidden in the metal.

Then he was back, the lightning bolt scar that split his face glowing ever so slightly. "So," he murmurs. "You've seen my true form. What did you think?"

"Truly?"

"Truly. You wouldn't want to lie to me now, would you?"

"Well, if you must know… it disgusted me."

"Final answer?"

"Final answer."

"Get in the bedroom," he mutters.

"And if I refuse?"

"I sincerely doubt you'd want to."

And with that, he grasps her wrist, his fingers digging into her skin, drawing blood— she's scared he'll burst a vein if he continues— and drags her behind him, like a dog, into the lavishly furnished bedroom where he throws her hard on to the bed, still stained with the blood that marked the taking of her innocence. She can hear her bones click and pop as she lands, and pins her beneath him once more. His ivory skinned face, with its jagged black lightning bolt of a scar cleaving through his eye, leering down at her; the face of a madman, she thinks.

As before, she shrinks away from him, but this time, he follows, his expression never faltering from the leering grin in which it appears to be frozen. "Why do you torment me so?" she whispers fearfully.

"Because it's fun." His answer is short and simple, only adding to the tension that hangs in the air like a thick cloud of black smoke.

His pointed canines sink into her throat, blood pours down her neck, staining her white dress red. It rushes down his throat in a scarlet river; the sharp metallic taste pleases him greatly.

She goes limp in his grip, and a maniacal grin finds its way to his blood-stained lips. The twin pinpricks still decorate her throat, and as he stares at them, running his gaze up and down every inch of her body, his smile widens, like a fissure in the desert; like the one in which he could have left her. But he did not.

What more could he take from her, he thinks. He's taken her blood, her innocence, what more could he do to make her suffer?

As he mulls it over, she stirs on the bed, still spotted with her blood, both from her neck and from the burning spot between her legs. He then leaps on her, pinning her back down, trapping her arms beneath him. A soft whimper escapes her throat, and he grins maliciously down at her, leaning in close, as if to kiss her. He loves it when she gets scared of him.

His breath is hot on her neck, like silver dust on the skin of a werewolf, or a stake in the heart of a dying vampire. It is agony to her.

A hiss, like snakes slipping soundlessly over rocks at the bottom of a shallow river, leaves his lips and she shivers as his breath washes over her in ripples **.**

"You don't like that?" he asks.

She can't reply, so she shakes her head no.

He grins in delight.

"What is it you dislike most about me, my Goddess?" he sneers.

This time, her tongue unlocks from its paralyzed state and she finds she can reply to him.

"Everything. Just being near you disgusts me."

His knife-edged hand strikes her face, and she cries out in pain. She tumbles head over heels across the velvet surface of the bed upon which she lies, and her head strikes the ebony headboard with a crack.

The cut on the crown of her head reopens with the impact, and scarlet blood begins to trickle once more down her face, leaving a red line in its wake. The cut carved through her eye, blinding her.

The Demon Lord realized this, and before she could do anything about it, his foot came whistling through the air and slammed into her ribs, making her cough up blood, and probably break a few in the process.

She cartwheels backwards across the bed, slamming once more into the headboard, and causing the already gaping wound in her forehead to widen even more. Fresh blood replaced the dried blood that lined the edges of the wound, turning the deep maroon of the old blood into the startling crimson of new blood.

A soft whimper slips quietly from her parted lips, which have by now become painful to move, with more blood; blood that seeps slowly from the numerous fissures spider webbing across their surface. His tongue flickers briefly across them, clearing them of blood, which she is grateful of, but at the same time, it disgusts her. To think she's letting him touch her in the way that he is.

But now is not the time to display her pride. To hell with her pride; in situations such as this, pride should be the last thing on her mind. She shrinks away for what seems to her like the millionth time since her arrival in this hellish place, a shiver of revulsion and horror runs down her spine. She can feel herself being pushed deeper into the bed, trapped beneath his monstrous weight. Being this close to him makes her want to throw up.

Knowing what is at stake, she turns her head to the side and retches violently, unable to properly expel the contents of her stomach for fear of being struck again by his iron hand.

His ebony fingers drag slowly across her cheek, sending shivers, like thousands of tiny electric shocks, through her skin. "Don't touch me," she whispers softly, afraid of raising her voice too loud should he hear her, and strike her hard enough to maybe kill her.

A smile cracks his face in two, and his fingers leave her cheek, trailing down her neck and shoulders, his tongue traces the curve of her chin, slicking it with saliva and other fluids she doesn't even want to think about.

Countless shivers run down her spine for the thousandth time since she had been brought here, and bile rises in her throat as she feels his icy fingers trail down her legs, a deadly caress of the soles of her feet.

The deadly smirk still remains upon his lips, and she looks away, refusing to meet his burning violet gaze. His ebony fingers dig into her chin and he jerks her head towards him, forcing her to look at him. Her chest suddenly feels very heavy; a quick glance downwards tells her it is not fear, but his fingers, curling tightly around her breast, squeezing it roughly, sending bolts of disgusting, disturbing pleasure through her quaking body.

"Stop…" Her voice emerges as a tiny, drawn out moan, something she would never have expected herself to do in his arms. The only person who had ever managed to get her to as much as squeal in pleasure had been Link.

She remembers their last night together, both him and her in her freezing bedroom, fighting the cold in the tiny room in the bed with paper-thin sheets. It had been freezing, yes, but it was worth it. And she had planned on saving herself for him when she got out of this hellhole. But now, that was nigh impossible.

His iron grip tightens on her face, drawing blood, and she can feel his other hand's grip strengthen on her chest. She tries to twist away, but his grip is like steel, and she only succeeds in hurting herself more. Tears run down her dust-streaked face, and painful sobs rack her body. "Get off me," she whispers fearfully.

A demonic cackle slips quietly from his lips, and he gives her right arm a savage jerk, pulling her to him, flattening himself against her. "This is my castle," he hisses, "and I am the king. You will do as I command, or I will hurt you."

He releases her and scuttles, spider-like across the bed out of her reach should she try to make a move against him.

Her fingers trail across her chest, the gown that once covered it now torn open carelessly, and discarded upon the sheets no more than a few feet away. Blood runs in ribbons down her skin, and she hisses as her fingernails dig unintentionally into a particularly deep cut made by his razor-like nails. Glancing up, she sees him sitting across from her on the bed, his legs crossed and the insane sneer still frozen upon his face. "What is wrong with you?"

His hand stretches out and brushes the side of her face. "My dear Zelda," he says, his voice tinted with insanity. "Whatever do you mean?"

She desperately wants to give him a smart answer, but she says nothing; it's his castle, his rules. If he says she's done something wrong, then she has no choice but to accept it and deal with the punishment.

"Cat got your tongue, Zellie?" He roars with laughter, the deafening sound reverberating through the chamber.

She finds her voice, and now she's shouting, angry tears spilling from her eyes. "When I get out of here, he will get you. Link will find you, and he will kill you."

Another bout of machine gun laughter erupts from his mouth, and he brings his hand whistling through the air cracking against the side of her face with a sickening crunch as the bones within snapped instantly. A howl of pain tears itself from her lips, and she wrenches her head away, her neck cracking as it jerks backwards violently.

"Don't ever mention his name in my dominion ever again," he hisses venomously.

A soft whimper escapes her swollen lips, and she pulls her split gown across her body, desperate to hide her perfect body from his greedy, sparkling violet eyes. But he's too fast for her. He grabs her forearms in his vice-like fingers, and pins them by her sides, rendering her immobile.

Shivers of disgust and revulsion run through her body, as his fingers crawl over her skin, she wants to stop him, to push him away, but with his temper, she knows she'll probably end up dead. "Sweet Goddess," he murmurs quietly, just enough for her to hear, "why is it you find me so… repulsive?"

She laughs at his words as they leave his lips; before they've had time to fully sink in, she's cackling, rolling backwards off the bed, her sides aching with laughter. "What did you say?" she asks, incredulously, her sides still burning with bouts of uncontrollable laughter.

"How dare you laugh at me!" he rages furiously, "Insolent wretch!"

His hand strikes her hard on the collarbone, and she falls to her knees, screaming in pain. "Stop!"

His demonic cackle of a laugh sounds again, and his hand strikes the side of her face, eliciting another scream from the goddess.

"This!" He slaps her, hard. "Is!" Another slap. "My!" His foot strikes her ankle, driving her to the floor. "Castle!" His kneecap drives into her stomach, and she coughs up blood, appearing black on the scarlet bed sheets.

The goddess curls her body into a ball, and turns away from him, invisible tears streaking down her face.

"Did I make you cry?" He laughs viciously.

She screams, and her fist flashes through the air; he catches it easily and laughs again, this time full of malice and hate. "Pathetic," he growls, and his iron hand strikes her face, carving deep scratches in her perfect skin.

Bruises blossom like midnight roses beneath her eye, bruises of the prettiest blue-black colour. He looks down at her mangled body, and smiles in that bestranged, maniacal way of his. "Dear, sweet Zelda. You look so pretty when you cry. Cry some more. For me?"

But she won't. She doesn't care what he does to her; she's reluctant to let him see her tears. "Leave me alone," she whispers softly.

His ebony fingers trail along her belly; it's all she can do not to vomit at his feet. She's had enough of him touching her like he does- only Link could do that to her.

Rage fills her heart, and she screams angrily, shoving him away as hard as she can. "Get away from me!" she howls madly, her voice a murderous rage of words and emotions.

An insane leer forms upon his lips; his midnight knuckles crack disgustingly, and she cringes- the sound sickens her to her core.

She shrinks away from him, hoping to somehow get away, but she knows it's not enough; what does it matter, anyway? What more can he take from her?

He's taken her love, her innocence, her freedom. She doesn't think there's any other ways he can make her suffer. But, oh, how wrong she is. He'll find a way. He always does.

Then she's pinned to the bed, not for the first time, and he's gazing down at her with those piercing violet eyes he seems to make such good use of. It makes her sick; how he can manipulate her like this, twist her soul like putty in his hands. She doesn't know how he got to her so fast, but she doesn't care. She fights the urge to throw up as she feels his hand upon her chest; she's sure he can feel her heart thudding beneath his fingers.

"Keep your filthy hands off me," she snarls viciously. The anger in her voice surprises the Demon Lord, but he doesn't withdraw.

"And what if I don't?" he sneers. "What are you going to do? What could you possibly hope to take from me that I haven't already stolen from you?"

She realizes, with a sickening jolt, that he's right. Innocence? He has none. Love? What love? Freedom? This is his castle. He can be as free as he likes in his domain. She hangs her head in defeat, and finally, after all this time, feels it would be better if she just gave up.

That insane leer she's grown to loathe flashes across his face once more. It's as if he can sense she's given up, sense she knows she's lost the fight. "Come now, Zellie dearest," he whispers. "Why on earth would you want to leave this place? I could give you everything you've ever wanted.

 _That's not all you could give me, is it?_ she thinks.

She sees the greedy shimmer of red in his eyes, and a passing look of horror flashes across her face.

"You're sick," she moans, horrified.

His trademark demonic smirk forms upon his lips once more, and his ebony fingers crawl further up her body, sliding effortlessly over her collarbones, which jut from her skin like jagged protrusions in the side of a mountain. Grinning even wider, he digs his nails viciously into the bone, and she cries out in pain as his nails embed themselves in her skin.

He changes his position so that his face is inches from her own, and his forked, snake-like tongue runs over the bone, over the flesh, like silken water, and she longs to hit him, to push him away just once.

Too weak to protest, too scared to fight back, he's reduced her to a pathetic, quivering wreck, a shadow of the majestic form she once possessed; she came to earth with the goal of escaping the demon king and his servant, but she ended up running right into his trap, into his deadly embrace of steel and iron and death.

Those gestures of his, all those little things: the food, the sweet, meaningless nothings he whispers to her. All were bait to draw her deeper into the maw of the beast, into its lair, where he could finally have her. Rip her into tiny pieces and devour her bit by bit, piece by piece…

Pain shoots through her left ankle; looking down she sees he has her trapped against the bed- there is nowhere she can go, and nothing she can do to prevent him having his way with her. This is his castle, his domain, and he is in control.

"Get off of me," she whispers.

But his grip of what she compares easily to the strength of tungsten, only tightens around her leg; blue-black roses flower where his fingers touch, the onyx veins upon his hand seem to sprout from the roses, like thorny midnight stems. Tears, like tiny crystals, drip from her eyes, running down her face, and she cannot bear the pain any longer. But she knows she must.

"What are you?" she mutters, just loud enough for him to hear her voice.

His only response is a demonic grin, a split in the white marble of his face, like a bottomless pit.

His grip loosens suddenly, and he smiles at the sight of his macabre handiwork he has imprinted upon her flesh. "So pretty…" he murmurs softly. "Like roses…"

She has to force herself to swallow the bile that has risen in her throat; throwing up now would only grant her more pain from the hands of the one who kept her imprisoned in this place. This castle of evil and darkness.

She swallows hard, and tastes the sharp, metallic tang of her own blood, as it fills her mouth, dripping from the cut on her tongue. "W…water," she manages to croak, her voice hoarse and grating, like the blade of a knife against a steel block.

He laughs, throwing his head back and cackling madly at the ceiling. "Water?" he asks, "You want water?"

Unable to speak, her throat as dry as sandpaper, she can only nod, and watch as the smile upon his face widens ever more.

He snaps his fingers and a glass of water appears in his hand, which he holds just out of the goddess's reach, tantalizingly close, yet so far.

"Is this what you want, my goddess?" he sneers.

"Just one of the many reasons I despise you, monster," she hisses, malice dripping from her tone.

He roars with laughter, a sound she has grown to despise, yet he still does it regardless. The very thought fills her with rage and anger. "Now, Zellie, is that really what you think of me? That's rather harsh, don't you think?"

Her anger takes over once more, banishing the thought of the thirst from her mind, she advances on him, a menacing look upon her face. "You have no right to say that to me," she growls. "You don't even know the meaning of that word."

She takes another step towards him, but is stopped in her tracks by that piercing, dagger-like glare of his. Seeing this, he takes advantage of her hesitation, and is by her side in an instant, his razor-like, midnight fingernails holding tight to her chin, thin lines of blood running down her face.

She stiffens in his arms, and her heart begins to pound beneath her ribs; if it beat any louder, she's sure he would hear it, of how afraid she really was. She's afraid, though she hates to admit it. She, who had the power to seal away the demon king, was trembling in the arms of his servant. It was humiliating to even think about it.

"Stop this now," she whispers, still afraid, beyond anything she's ever felt before.

A look of utter disgust crosses the Demon Lord's face, and he shoves her away in a rage. "Useless!" he roars angrily. "Pathetic! And to think the miserable, weak human being I hold captive was once the goddess herself. It disgusts me to even think about it."

"If I disgust you so, why is it you keep me here, demon?"

"Because if you weren't here, I would have no-one to play with. I'd be all alone."

He laughs and the sound is like red-hot needles boring deep into the goddess's skull. She claps her hands over her ears, and screams. "Stop it!"

What he says next does not surprise her, but his words are like a dagger being plunged into her heart. "No. I don't think I will."

His grip, like steel and fire, burns her wrist as his fingers coil around her wrist like snakes and tears begin to blur her eyes, marring and distorting his twisted features into something far more hideous and disgusting than before.

Images flash through her mind faster than she can follow, and bile, bitter tasting and sharp, rises in her throat. She forces herself to swallow it again, and shivers of involuntary disgust run through her. He makes a noise what sounds like laughing, and she screams, the sound shrill and piercing, loud enough that even he must cover his ears.

Hate for him, though he cannot see it, boils deep within her veins, like acid bubbling and hissing beneath her skin. Her face twists in anger and fury, and he laughs an almost childish sound, alive with glee.

She glares at him furiously. "How is it," she asks him, "that you can laugh while watching others suffer? What kind of sick, twisted, beast are you?"

"As I told you once before, it matters not what I am, only how I act. And I doubt you could do anything to change who I am in your," He pauses to eye her in disgust. "current form."

She laughs, the sound no longer sweet and pure, but full of unbridled rage and malice. "Current form? As if you have any right to say that to me. I have seen you go through countless regenerations, yet the hero has only seen three. And you think you can talk to me about current forms?"

Rage shows clearly upon his face as he realizes she is right, and he desperately wants to hit her, to knock some sense into that inferior human brain she possesses.

He can stay his hand no longer; it has been ages since he has heard the satisfying crack of his hand against her face, felt the warm rush of blood as it streams from the cut he has made in her skin. And he cannot wait.

His hand cracks against her face, and she cries out, feeling the sting of his hand upon her flesh like hornets, millions of them, merciless in their assault.

The goddess cries out in pain, biting down hard on her lip, tasting blood, sharp and metallic, and he smiles. That smile she hates. The smile she loathes. She turns away, unable to look at him, both embarrassed and afraid, though more the latter than the former. How she hates that he can twist her the way he does, say the things he thinks he can say. And he knows she is powerless to stop him.

She has tried many times, and many times, she has failed miserably, often resulting in pain and the shedding of her blood. Her sunlight coloured locks are stained with streaks of blood, her blood, a permanent reminder of her enslavement to him.

The latest wound from his hand stands proudly on the side of her neck, just to the right of her carotid artery. If he had hit just a few centimeters over, he would have cut it and she would be no more than a bleeding corpse on the marble floor of his castle; her blood leaking into the stone, changing it from a pure, searing white, to a bloody scarlet colour.

She brushes her fingers across it and hisses as her nails puncture the surface, causing thin lines of blood to dribble down her neck, soaking into the material of the dress she wore and staining it a pretty pink colour. Yet to her, it was a repulsive as Death itself.

So preoccupied is she with caring for her wound that he forgets he is still in the room, and she doesn't realize it until he has hit her again, eliciting a cry of pain from her swollen lips. Looking up, she sees the devil's smile upon his lips, and this time, she cowers from him, burying her face in the pillow. She feels his fingers brush ever so lightly across her cheek, almost unnoticeable, but still, she feels it.

His presence beside her is like a wisp of smoke; always there but rarely seen. His fingers trail absentmindedly across her body, and she tenses up beneath him, her muscles screaming at her to move, but she can't. He's pinned her. She's going nowhere.

"Pretty Goddess," he murmurs softly. "Sweet Zelda…"

She trembles with anger at how easily she lets herself be manipulated by his words and his actions, she thinks herself pathetic and weak, just like he does.

What has she become, little more than his slave, bent to his will at his command, silently begging for her prince, her hero to come and save her. But how selfish she has been, thinking only of her escape, and not of how much blood and sweat he must have shed to get to her, only to have her torn away from him once again.

She berates herself for thinking this way, only of herself and of how she can escape, of how long she can last with him despite the way he treats her, like a dog, following at his heels every step he takes.

The candles that once burned upon the vanity have gone out now, leaving melted pools of butter-coloured tallow to smolders on the wood, like acid, slowly eating into the surface, and the room has been plunged into darkness, leaving her sight disabled, and her only senses her hearing, taste, smell, and touch.

Hearing. She can hear his raspy breathing in her ear, like the death rattle of an ancient shaman.

Touch. She can feel his fingers running over her skin, cold and bone-chilling, like icy rain running down her skin.

Taste. The taste of blood is sharp in her mouth, strong and metallic, as if she is chewing on a spoon of silver.

Smell. Burning candles, long since extinguished, their smoke still lingering in the air, it smells to her like the intoxicating aroma of poison, though she's not quite sure why.

His silver tongue flickers across her cheek once more, but this time, she does not shiver as she did before; this time, she remains as still as a statue, frozen to the bed as if her limbs have turned to ice, bitter and cold.

Enraged at her lack of response, he grows angry, striking out at her like a snake lunging for its prey. She has no time to get away, she can only watch as his hand blurs through the air, hitting the side of her face with an almighty crack, like the sound of lightning.

"Foolish girl," he growls. "What hope have you to gain by defying me? I have taken everything you hold dear, crushed your hopes and dreams under my foot, and yet you still persist on fighting."

A soft whimper of pain escapes her lips, and she cannot answer him. Her lips are far too swollen to even think about uttering a reply.

He laughs, and she's fuming inside at how he can derive pleasure from the pain of others.

It's almost as if he's ripped out her tongue, for she cannot answer him even if she wanted to.

Her fingers dig into the bed sheets, and blood runs down her hand as her nails cut through the satin and deep into her palms.

The tangy, metallic smell of blood reaches his nostrils, and they flare up, like those of a bull, and the demon's smile forms on his chalk coloured lips once more. She's grown sick of that smile; she wishes she could just wipe it off his face.

She feels, trapped, imprisoned, like a wild animal in a cage, never to be free, the cold metal bars of her prison her only comfort. Only this time, her cage is his castle, and the bars that keep her here are cold stone walls, shot through with pulsing arteries of the deepest black.

He runs his fingers through the rose madder stained locks that were once the colour of sunshine, watching them spill through his fingers like water, and smiling when they pool at the base of her neck.

The goddess freezes, still as a statue, when she feels his fingers trail across her skin, down her neck, and across her shoulders, dancing over her collarbones like the frantic hands of a maestro at the keys of a piano. He smiles, Death's grin, and a rattling laugh slips from his parted bone-white lips.

She scowls, her face twisting as if she has swallowed a lemon, and he laughs again, tracing his fingers along her jaw, feeling her shake beneath his fingers, the grin upon his face widening until it yawned open before her, like an open grave, or a coffin lined with ebony velvet.

His teeth are like stars in space, the darkness that shrouds the room a cloak of shadows, a soft hissing fills her head, as if there is a python trapped inside her skull, and her eyes, blue, like the sky, flash with terror. The hissing noise inside her head grows louder by the second; where once was a single snake, now there is a whole nest of them, the sound getting louder and louder until she can stand it no longer.

Shaking with anger, a wildfire burning out of control in her heart, she begins to cry, hot, salty tears streaking down her face, the taste bitter on her lips, one she is all too familiar with. She doesn't care anymore; all that he has put her through has banished her fear of him, and she is no longer afraid. She strikes out at him angrily, ignoring the fact that he has caught her hand before it has come anywhere near him.

He shakes his head in disappointment, and laughs, the sound like daggers piercing her skull. "Dear Zelda," he says, almost disappointingly, "you should know by now. You can't touch me. But I can touch you." He laughs again.

She tries to back away, but even that small, tiny movement of crawling away causes the bones in her leg to shift and bite into her skin, shards of bone clicking against each other beneath the skin of her leg. He's snapped her leg once, there's nothing stopping him from doing it again.

Ebony fingers curl around her skin, and his grip tightens, sending waves of pain through her broken leg. She can only watch as her leg snaps and tears spring to her eyes; tears of pain and agony. Shards of her tibia bone in her shin protrude from beneath her skin, making her sick just looking at it.

She feels faint, but she forces herself to stay conscious, for fear of what he might do to her if she passes out. Blood is dripping down her leg, staining the red sheets a dark maroon colour. Now there's no escape. Her leg bones are shattered; she can feel her heart rate quickening in fear. She cannot move, she has no choice but to lie there on the blood stained sheets and let him do to her what he will. She could have fought back, but now she can't even do that. She feels pathetic. What a goddess she is now.

Trapped like a rabbit in the headlights, she can only watch, paralyzed, as he rakes his nails along the soft flesh of her belly, waiting for her reaction, but he gets none. She remains still as a rotting corpse, no breath, no movement.

He leers down at her, his grin reminiscent of a shark's toothy smile, right before it rips you to pieces, and she shrinks away in fear, squeezing her eyes shut as tight as she can. He lunges forward, quick as lightning, faster than she can follow, and then he is upon her, his knee pressing into her chest, cutting off her breathing.

Death seems imminent for her; she cannot escape, cannot run. He's like a cheetah, fast as lightning, like the king on a chessboard, he is master of his domain. However, unlike a chessboard king, he is free to move, and needs no guards to protect him.

She, however, is compared to a pawn, slow moving and worthless, easily caught and weak. In her previous form, one could call her a queen, but now she is nothing. Once, she had knights at her command, to fight for her, to protect her. But those days were far behind her now.

Her heart pounds frighteningly in her chest, and she chokes, a strangled gasp escaping her throat. He laughs, the sound like spitting coals on an open fire, and presses his knee harder into her chest. She coughs up blood, staining the front of her crystal dress a deep crimson.

Her broken, mangled legs twitch feebly, as if in an attempt to move, jerking in a dance that takes her nowhere. Annoyed by her attempts, the Demon Lord slams his heel into her ankles, snapping them even further, and she wants so desperately to cry out as the pain rips through her body, but she can't. Her throat is dry and her tongue is too parched to utter a sound.

A low, gritty snicker escapes his lips, and he smiles, saying, "You should get some sleep. Not that you'll need it."

She fumes silently, her voice emerging as a hiss of anger. "You bastard. I'll kill you."

He laughs again, this time more in humour than to annoy her. Stepping backwards, he spreads his arms, exposing himself to her, taunting her to strike him.

But there is one thing she can't help but regret. The last thing she sees before she fades into the welcoming embrace of oblivion and darkness, is his leering face…


	3. Chapter 3

In her dream, she is alone on a barren, white plain, clothed only in a simple gown of white silk, so thin as to have been woven from the silk of a spider's web. The air is cold and bitter; a blizzard of snow bombards her frozen skin like arrows of glass.

There is nothing for miles, the landscape a hurricane of ice and snow, of mighty, howling winds, and throbbing snow clouds, belching out endless torrents of snow and ice. She doesn't know where she is, or how she got there. This illusory realm of impossibilities serves only to make her mind whirl, driving her ever closer to the brink of insanity. Questions storm through her subconscious, shrieking and howling like the storm that rages all around her.

She shivers, cold again, the dress she wears soaked with melted snow. Her golden, sunlight hair whipping all around her in the violent, screaming wind, the only light in this frozen hell. Realizing it would be fruitless to just stand there, she begins to walk slowly, unsure of where she is heading, but to her, anywhere would be better than here.

Licking her frozen lips, she starts to hum, a soft lullaby from long ago, from a time before even Demise was born. Back to the days of the first Hero. Before long, the cold she feels begins to intensify, chilling her bones and freezing her soul, and not even the sound of her own melodious, angelic voice is enough to sate the relentless bite of the wind and snow that surrounds her like a veil, shrouding her from view.

She is completely blind, lost in the haze of white and silence. She should be hearing the wind and snow roaring in her ears, but she is deaf even to that. Finding shelter should be her first priority, but where to go? She can see nothing but white mist in every direction, and she doesn't want to move for fear of becoming lost. But she knows if she doesn't, she'll freeze, lost forever in this icy realm of endless nightmares.

Although, she reasons, there is one good thing about being trapped here. This realm lacks one thing, and that one thing makes it better somehow. This realm thrives on her nightmares, and she has but one nightmare to be afraid of. Without him, her dreams are eternal bliss.

But that bliss doesn't last long. Like a mirror of glass, it is shattered as easily as one would break a pot. The snow clears and his face, etched with its maniacal grin, appears above her, the lightning scar of the deepest black cutting a path through his right eye. She falls backwards in surprise, hitting the blanket of snow beneath her feet with a soft whoosh. "Stay away from me," she whispers, terrified.

"Sweet Zelda… Goddess..."

Her face twists in disgust. The voice is not that of the Demon Lord. It is that of her Hero, her lover, the one clothed in green.

"How dare you use his voice in that manner. He is nothing like you."

He laughs, a sound nothing like the Demon Lord she knew and hated, but a laugh disturbingly like that of her Hero. Rage fills her heart. It is one thing to steal his voice, but his laugh as well? This is madness.

"But Zelda," he says, "surely you recognize me. I'm him. I'm Link."

The image of his face flickers and blurs, changing momentarily into that of the Hero, with his cerulean eyes and dusty brown locks. Then it is gone, changed again, back to that of the Demon Lord, with his alabaster skin, the ebony scar running through his right eye; those piercing violet orbs that are the eyes of the beast.

Suddenly, the air around her begins to hum with power, and the landscape changes, from the eye of a storm, to the endless night locked within the heart of a dying star.

Her chest tightens in fear, the endless night making his twisted sneer appear more devilish and demonic than ever. He laughs and she can feel herself being swallowed up by his cavernous maw, like the gates of Hell where only eternal damnation awaited those who passed through them.

Hurricane winds rip through the darkened space, and she can feel herself being drawn closer, sucked further into his gaping, cavernous, light-deprived jaws. She loses her footing and trips, screaming as she realizes she has no chance now; there is no escape from the ghastly fate that awaits her…

There are no windows in his castle, so she has no way of telling how long she has been trapped in his shadow. Time is meaningless within these walls, not seconds, nor minutes, nor hours themselves are of any significance to her so long as she is imprisoned here.

The bed in which she lays is soaked with tears of salt, her sweat, and blood.. Her eyes snap open, and light, harsh and blinding, floods her vision. Throwing back the covers, she sees the steadily growing pool of liquid between her legs and she begins to cry again. This is what he's reduced her to, a shaking, miserable shell of a human being. She knows full well what he's doing to her, yet she allows it to continue, regardless.

The blood, she knows, is what he drew from her when his razor nails took what she could never retrieve. The sweat is the sweat of fright and terror; every night she falls asleep crying and shaking, afraid she might never wake up from the dreams she has. Her only solitude in this silent, eternal hell. And the tears are what he causes when he strikes her, sometimes drawing blood, and leaving deep scratches in her peach-coloured skin, turning it from the colour she loves to a colour she despises with every fiber of her being.

She's alone, she notes, he's nowhere in sight. _Good_ , she thinks, _maybe now I can escape_.

But even as she thinks this, she knows it cannot be so. She is his prisoner, and he has eyes everywhere. She can run all she likes, but she knows, in her heart, that he will find her. Bile rises in her throat, and she cannot help herself. She bends over the edge of the bed and vomits onto the floor, spattering it with things she doesn't even want to think about.

Retching violently, she wipes her mouth with the back of her hand, and collapses onto the bed. Tears soon fall freely down her face, salty and hot.

"Link," she moans desperately, "help me…"

In her head, she thinks this is insanity, he can't hear her, but in her heart, she knows this is all she has. If she doesn't do something, he will kill her. She knows it.

And he is there, beside her, in an instant, her world shattered like a glass of wine, full to the brim with deep red liquor, now dripping down the legs of a table like blood, pretty crimson. "Goddess..."

She screams, twisting and thrashing, like a fish caught in a net, whose life is about to end on the blade of a knife, though she only serves to agitate her broken leg further. His iron hand closes about her bleeding wrist, still stained with maroon streaks of blood, cuts like ribbons scoring her pretty flesh.

Silent tears fall freely down her face, and she turns away, unwilling to let him see what he has caused. It would only make him happier.

"Thought you could escape me, did you," he rasps, his voice like stone on sandpaper, or a blade on the whetstone, honing the edge of his razor sharp tongue. At the sound of his voice, shivers run like icicles down her spine, cold worming its way through her body, and freezing her heart to rock.

She smiles, despite herself, and a flicker of emotion, confusion perhaps, passes across his face.

"What is this?" he demands, angrily. "A smile? Tell me, what is the source of your amusement?"

"Goddess," she says, her voice devoid of all emotion. "What is it but a title, one which has been stripped from me as easily as one might scale a fish? It is nothing. That which defined me, gave me power, has been taken from me once again. Your words no longer hold meaning to me. They are as ineffective as fire on stone."

"And what are you going to do about it?" he snarls viciously.

"Link is coming for me," she continues. "And he'll find you. He'll find you and kill you. Your corpse will lie bloodied upon the very marble upon which you now stand." Her voice remains cold and emotionless, like that of a statue. If statues could talk.

His fingers curl around her chin, jerking it towards him savagely, and he hisses, in his snake-like whisper, so quiet she has to strain to hear him, "Give up, girl. He's not coming."

But she refuses to believe it. He would come. He always did.

Yet she cannot stop those thoughts from storming through her mind. The voice inside her head, that of her subconscious, sneers maliciously. How the mighty have fallen, it drawls, bringing out each syllable as if it were elastic. A tapping starts, deep within her skull, like the sound of drums. It's as if there is someone— something— inside her head, drumming a crazy rhythm of fingers on bone.

It drives her closer to the brink of pure insanity, each drumbeat like the rhythmic pulsing of a demon's heart.

His fingers brush her face, cold like ice, and she cannot move, frozen to the spot as if her feet are metal, welded to the stone.

They crawl like spiders down her body, slipping discourteously between her breasts, and even she, the goddess who once presided over all that ever existed, cannot suppress a shiver of disgust and revulsion.

He chuckles lightly, a grin forming upon his lips. His violet gaze rakes her form, his hands tracing the delicate curves of her body, watching as she trembles in his grasp. Her fingers clench into tight fists by her sides. She is powerless to do naught but watch.

She has formed a wall of stone around her pulsing heart, shielding it from his bitter words and vulgar actions, becoming herself an emotionless... One might call her a statue. But she knows otherwise.

He cannot understand why she is not reacting to his advances, why she is not flinching away. How she has not been driven insane by now is a mystery to him, one cloaked in ever-darkening smoke, like the breath of a thousand dragons.

Again, she smiles, this time in triumph, only for it to morph into a scream as a burning starts deep within her chest, growing more intense by the second, until she is driven to her knees, arms wrapped tightly around herself, anything to quell the burning fire. To end the searing pain.

This time, it is he who begins to smile, though on him it resembles more of a twisted grimace. He kicks her roughly in the stomach with his pointed foot, and she screams in pain, curling her arms tighter around her body.

His smile becomes a disfigured cackle. She can see deep into his cavernous maw, though only for a second before black spots begin to dance rapidly before her eyes, the ground rushing up to meet her…


End file.
